The Dixon Book Club
by OneLastBird
Summary: The group left a violent, racist drug addict cuffed to a roof in Atlanta. The man they bring back is someone else... someone who's lived his life to its brutal end and started over. Now all he wants is to make things right. Warning: Stong Language
1. Inferno

Merle couldn't believe it. That Goddamned psycho bit his fucking fingers off!

He could feel his hand burning even through the spots he was seeing. The Governor had him by the neck; that emotionless eye staring into his soul as his life was choked out of him. Merle knew it. He was going to die, and worse... he had failed at the one thing that might have redeemed him. He had nothing left to fight with; head spinning from a good kick courtesy of Martinez, ribs probably broken, arm out of joint, down to three fingers... _shit!_

He relaxed and let the darkness take him.

Only the Governor decided to let up, let him breath. Merle coughed and wheezed as the man backed away. He couldn't move, so he glared as best he could.

"I ain't gonna beg," Merle choked out. "I ain't begging you!"

"No." The Governor's voice was cold as a river in January as he raised his pistol.

Merle heard the sound, felt the punch in his chest, but didn't feel any pain. Odd...

He tried to make a grab for his enemy, but fell forward instead. His body jolted and suddenly came alive with white hot agony.

That asshole... that _asshole_ stepped over him, left the shed.

Merle's tomb.

He wasn't dead yet, but he knew it wouldn't be long and he kinda wished he could get on with it. He couldn't breath. He tried. Good Lord how he tried, but every gasp burned worse then the last and it felt like he was breathing boiled water.

Only it wasn't water. It was blood.

He was drowning in his own blood.

Finally... _finally_ he grew numb, faded out. This was it. All he ever achieved was hurting people and screwing over his brother, and he couldn't even take out one asshole before dying like the pointless nobody he was.

It was with heavy regret that he closed his eyes and exhaled his last breath.

The end.

* * *

><p>Or was it...<p>

Merle opened his eyes and he was outside, siting up, back resting against a metal pipe. The first thing that registered in his muddled brain was that he could breath. His throat was raw and dry, dry, _dry,_ but he could breath!

He checked his chest with his left hand and found no blood or bullet wound. What the hell?

The second thing he registered was _holy shit_ did his skin ever fucking burn. He tried to stand and brushed his sun baked right arm against the pipe. "FUCK!"

And then he saw it... his right hand, present and accounted for, the wrist scraped and bloody from the handcuffs that fastened him to a pipe.

"No..." he breathed. He tugged on it, twisted, tried different angles, started pulling and pushing with his legs and screaming to the high heavens for someone, _anyone_ to intervene and let him go. Then he fell down amidst the pigeon shit and filth of that Atlanta roof top and started to sob. Pathetic? Yes. But he couldn't help it.

This was Hell.

He had died a shitty, ugly excuse for a human being, and now he was going to spend eternity on this hateful roof paying for it.

Merle stayed like that for awhile, weeping in pity for himself, but nothing changed. All was still and quiet, save for the moaning of the Walkers that were trying to get through the access door. He calmed down a little and stared numbly under the pipe. The tool box was there... and the saw; all exactly as it had been when he lived this. He could use his belt again, get the saw, follow through.

This thought was overridden by flashes of memory; blood, pain, the wooden sound of metal on bone...

Merle nearly threw up. He jerked into a sitting position and clutched at his intact wrist, willing the phantom pain to fade.

"Jesus no," he whimpered. He couldn't do it. He couldn't cut his own hand off a second time.

He leaned forward and rested his brow on the pipe. He focused on that sweet oxygen in his lungs and on the slowing tattoo of his heart. He could hear his blood in his ears, along with the endless moans and hisses of the dead.

Merle lifted his head and stared blearily at them. He'd been so damn scared of them last time, so frantic to escape being eaten alive... but now he could see how stupid he'd been. The damn things couldn't get through the door!

There was a heavy chain stretched taught on the inside, keeping it from opening more than a couple of inches.

Had T-Dog done that?

Merle sighed. It was hard to think with the familiar jitters of a drug crash. This was the first time he felt it in almost a year and he couldn't believe how unwelcome it was. He needed to _think_ dammit!

He was too hot, his skin burning and peeling, his muscles cramped from sitting in one position all night. It was mid-morning, judging by the sun, and already the day was a humid bastard. It was making him dizzy and nauseous. If he was alive... _if_ he was alive, he would only last a couple more hours.

He could saw his hand off, or he could let the heat kill him, or...

Daryl had claimed he came back, that Merle was the one who left him. He'd said Merle was always the one leaving. _  
><em>

If this wasn't Hell, then Daryl might be on his way. Merle had option number 3: trust his brother, and he decided that's the one he would take.

This time he would wait.


	2. All the King's Men

When Rick Grimes asked if they were going after Merle or the guns first, Daryl was ready to knock him on his ass. Cop number one back at the camp had been a self-important jackass and this one was shaping up to be just as bad. Didn't they know what the Georgia heat could _do_ to a person?!

At least Rick was owning up to it and helping. It wasn't cause to forgive him yet, but it was a start.

With Glenn as their guide, the four would-be rescuers moved quickly and quietly through the city, but it was still well into the afternoon by the time they made it to the department store and Daryl was getting anxious. As he figured it, his brother was trapped on a roof for well over a day now with no shade, and no water. He relieved his tension a little by mocking a geek as he put an arrow in her head. He forced himself to keep calm and level-headed while they crept through the silent building. Glenn was in front again, peaking into the open stairwell door. He put his hand up and then his fingers to his lips.

The others didn't need to ask what the problem was. They could hear it.

_"How many?"_ Rick mouthed.

Glenn's eyes were wide as he whispered, _"At least a dozen."_

Rick nodded and signalled for the others to backtrack down the hall.

Once they were a good distance away, Daryl hissed, "What the Hell're we going back for? We ain't got time to waste."

"We need to do this quiet... smart," answered Rick. He turned to Glenn. "Is there anything here we can use to club, or stab those things?"

"Wait here." Glenn ran off and came back minutes later carting a couple of baseball bats and a long, thin metal rod meant for getting clothes off high racks. He handed the bats to Rick and T-Dog and broke the end of the rod over his knee. The resulting jagged point looked wicked.

"Good," said Rick. "Now all we need is a plan."

Daryl rolled his eyes impatiently. "We go up there and kill 'em. Ain't hard."

"Sounds pretty hard to me," said T-Dog.

Daryl ignored the fact that the much larger black man now had a bat in one hand and heavy bolt cutters in the other. He got into T-Dog's face. "I wasn't talking to _you."_

T-Dog sighed and moved his face away from Daryl's angry gaze. "Easy, man; if the Walkers are still up there, then so's your brother, but we won't be doing him any favours if we all get bit."

Daryl swallowed and turned his eyes to the floor. Dammit, the big idiot had a point.

It was Glenn who piped up with a plan. "It's like you said back at the camp, T. That stairwell's narrow. If we get them to come to us, all we have to do is take out a couple in the front and the rest'll be tripping over them. We pick them off one... two at a time."

The four of them all nodded and Rick said, "Okay. We can do this."

They were back at the door looking up at the Walkers. Their presence did nothing to divert the dead's attention from the roof and T-Dog asked, "So... how do we get them down?"

Daryl huffed, filled his lungs, and hollered, "Y'ALL COME GET SOME FRESH MEAT, YOU SMELLY SONS OF BITCHES!"

The others stared at him, startled by the sudden volume in the tight space. Daryl shrugged and tilted an ear to the crowd that was now shuffling down the stairs. "It worked," he said simply.

He raised his crossbow. The geeks were a good few seconds from reaching the bottom of the stairs, so Daryl took that time to steady himself. He fired. The Walker in the lead went down, the body crumpling and rolling to a stop on the landing. The next two tripped over the corpse and he plunged his knife into the head of the one on his right.

Rick was on the left with his new bat. Three down.

Daryl grabbed his arrow and backed out of the way, letting T-Dog and Glenn take over. He readied his crossbow again and took another shot, then another. It only took a couple of minutes for the last geek to go down.

While Rick, Glenn, and T-Dog stood around panting, Daryl moved the corpses to clear a path. He took off up the stairs, screaming his brother's name. At the top he found that the chain had held fast, so at least there was that. He cut it, dropped the tool, raised his crossbow, and kicked the door open.

No Walkers.

Swiftly, but cautiously he stepped out onto the roof. It was sweltering up there; a hot, humid day at its worst with not a damn breeze in sight.

He didn't see his brother anywhere. His pulse now racing with worry, he made his way along the catwalk, his weapon still at the ready. As he came down the steps, his heart stopped dead.

There was his brother, curled up under the pipe in the only shade he could get. Merle's right arm was stuck out, his wrist caught at an awkward angle by the cuffs. The metal had chewed right into his inflamed skin and was caked with blood.

"Merle!" Daryl shouldered his crossbow and rushed to his brother.

No movement. No sign of life.

He slid over on his knees and reached for Merle's neck. He found a pulse, thank God, but it was weak and rapid. Growing frantic, he started to drag his unresponsive brother out from the pitiful shelter.

"Stop!"

Daryl tensed and looked up. Rick and the other were walking towards him and Rick raised the cutters Daryl had dropped. "It'll be better if we get the cuffs off first."

He was right, of course. Merle had done enough damage to his wrist already, and moving him around now would only make it worse.

Daryl nodded and said, "You best hurry up. He's alive, but he's burning hot."

He watched anxiously as his brother was freed by the very people who stuck him there in the first place. They snipped the chain and Merle's limp arm fell to the ground. Rick shot Daryl a warning look before carefully cutting the cuff itself. As soon as it was done, Daryl resumed his struggle to move his brother out into the open.

"Goddammit Merle," he grunted. "When'd your ass get so heavy?"

He snarled when the others stepped in to help, but held himself back from snapping at them.

He really did need the help.

Together they got Merle out and laying flat on his back. Then all except Daryl stood back and watched silently as he examined his brother's sorry state.

T-Dog was wide eyed and pale. He whispered, "_It was only one day. I didn't think... I didn't think he'd be that bad."_

Rick nodded. He could see Merle's chest rising and falling, but the man wasn't responding at all to Daryl's attempts to rouse him.

"Daryl?" said Rick.

Daryl shook his head. "His wrist's all infected," he said. "Probably gave him a fever to start, and with all this heat and humidity..." He bit his lip. Merle had a stash of meds in his motorcycle, which was back at camp; if they could get him there alive, he'd be okay... only Daryl couldn't say as much. There was Meth and shit mixed in there and the others didn't know about any of it. They'd probably be rightly pissed. Instead, he said, "We need to cool him down, get a ton of water in him."

"I have water!" Glenn slipped his backpack from his shoulders and took out two plastic bottles. He helped Daryl sit Merle up, and handed over the first bottle.

While Daryl tried to get his brother to drink, Glenn uncapped the second bottle and poured it over Merle's head.

The result was the last thing any of them expected: the nearly comatose man spluttered to life with a moan of, "Son of a bitch..." His fevered blue eyes fell on Glenn, and he lunged for the young man like a rabid dog.

Luckily Daryl's instincts were top notch. He grabbed his brother around the middle and held him back. "Merle! Calm down!"

"Little shit's still got in it for me!" he wheezed. He tried to claw his way out of Daryl's grip and crawl towards Glenn, who was watching all of this in horror. "Did that on purpose! I'll kill 'em!"

Rick and T-Dog joined in, and together the three of them managed to pin Merle against the pipe. His reaction was to try and kick Rick and frantically yell, "Let me go! Don't cuff me again, man. Please, no... please you can't leave me up here! Not again... not again..."

Rick kept his face impassive, but it was like a punch to the gut. He looked to T-Dog, who looked like he actually had been punched.

Daryl shouldered both of them out of the way, put a hand on his brother's neck, and forced Merle's brow against his own. "No one's leaving you, brother," he said softly. "You gotta calm down. You ain't well."

Merle's heart was fluttering like a bird and his breathing was rapid, but he seemed to relax at Daryl's words. "I'm sorry... I'm sorry..." he muttered. He was saying other stuff too, but Daryl would be damned if he could understand any of it. He was seriously worried. Never in his years of dealing with Merle's shit had he seen his brother like this.

He released Merle and gestured for the half full water bottle Glenn was still clutching. "Please tell me y'all got more of that," he said as the Asian handed it over.

"Yeah," Glenn answered weakly.

Daryl snorted. This kid seemed to have everything. "Think you can rustle up a shit ton of ice, too?" he asked half jokingly and half hopefully.

Glenn smiled and looked a bit more at ease. "No, sorry. Fresh out."

"Damn. 'Cause that's about what this asshole needs."

He tipped some water into Merle's mouth and that's all it took for the dehydrated man to grab the bottle and guzzle it down.

Rick frowned. Daryl was right. The best way to treat a heatstroke victim was to get them into a tub of ice water, and they didn't even have cold water.

At least what they did have seemed to do the trick for the moment. Merle peered around at the four of them with more lucid eyes and said, "Y'all took your sweet fucking time."

Daryl half grimaced and half smirked. "'Least we came back for you. Almost didn't bother," he joked. This was normal. They were getting back to normal.

But Merle didn't bite back like he was supposed to. "Shut up, Daryl. You shut up..." His words lacked their edge and he turned a shade paler under his sunburns, like the thought that his brother might have left him terrified him.

Daryl didn't know what to say. This wasn't Merle. It was like his brother was broken, but that was impossible. Nothing... nothing could break Merle.

Rick interrupted his thoughts by saying, "We need to get inside, out of the sun." He turned to Glenn and pointed to the other access door. "What's down there?"

Glenn shrugged. "Offices mostly, some kitchens."

"Is it secure?"

"There's Walkers down there, but there's no giant, busted out windows."

Rick looked between Daryl and T-Dog. The latter was the physically stronger of the two, but the former was the one with the crossbow. Deciding their next course in his mind, Rick said, "I'll grab Dale's tools. Glenn, you take one of the bats and stay up front with Daryl. T-Dog, you help Merle."

T-Dog looked willing, but Merle said, "Oh _hell_ no! King Klutz, here? I'll fucking walk on my own."

Daryl didn't like the idea either. "He's _my_ brother. I am the only one here I trust to keep him alive, 'specially considering how y'all handled that before."

"I _said_ I'll walk on my own." Merle attempted to prove his point, but between his dizziness and the fact that he hadn't used his legs in over twenty-four hours, he immediately fell back onto his ass. He leaned his head on the pipe and sighed. "Damn..."

Daryl was about to say something, but Rick was on him. "I understand," said the cop. "Really I do, but your crossbow is the only ranged weapon we have that won't draw every Walker for miles."

Daryl's eyes narrowed and he sneered. "Man, _fuck_ my crossbow."

At this Merle cracked a wicked grin and started cackling. Even Glenn and T-Dog had to struggle no to laugh.

With the tension effectively broken, Daryl rolled his eyes and gave his brother a gentle kick in the leg. "Shut up, you filthy minded old pervert."

A little more at ease, Rick said, "Daryl? We don't have a lot of time here."

"Fine! Whatever!" Daryl pointed at T-Dog and growled, "You drop my brother, I drop you."

T-Dog put his hands up. "I'm not dropping anybody."

* * *

><p>Merle complained loudly the instant T-Dog had an arm under his shoulder and kept it up the whole way down the stairwell, mostly about the man's clumsiness. He shut up when Daryl threatened to use him as Walker bait. He saw flashes of a car, of the Dead pawing at it, of all the times he nearly got bit and all the times he watched other people get eaten alive. He hadn't been afraid of them in a long time, but in his current state...<p>

T-Dog noticed the sudden silence and felt Merle shudder. He looked down at the man, concerned. "You okay?"

Merle snapped out of it and glared back, daring his glorified walking stick to say anything else.

With a sigh, T-Dog shifted his weight and concentrated on keeping close to the others.

Merle stayed quiet after that.

When he was finally laid down in one of the more secure offices, his eyes were glazed and he was breathing rapidly.

Daryl was on him in an instant. He put a hand on either side of Merle's face and choked down a curse of frustration. "His temperature's right back up again." At this rate his brother was going to slip into a coma.

Glenn offered up the last of his water bottles, and Rick said, "You and T-Dog stay here and do what you can. Glenn and I'll scout ahead, see if we can't find more water."

Daryl barely registered this, and barely noticed them leave. He started removing Merle's vest and tank top, ignoring his brother's weak protests and attempts to swat him off. He went to work undoing his brother's belt.

T-Dog locked the door to the office and turned to watch him. "What are you doing?"

"It'll be easier to cool 'em down with his clothes off," Daryl answered simply. "Come help me with his pants."

When T-Dog hesitated, Daryl rolled his eyes. "He's got fucking underwear on. Now come 'ere."

"I got a list of things I never wanna see, and Merle Dixon's undies are damn near the top." Even as T-Dog said it, he moved to help.

Together they got Merle's boots and pants off and sat the half-conscious man up so he could drink.

T-Dog froze when he got a good look at Merle's back and the old scars that criss-crossed it. He looked to Daryl, whose face was scrunched up with suppressed rage, and wisely chose not to say anything. Instead he uncapped the last bottle and handed it to the furious hunter.

"Thanks," said Daryl. He wouldn't meet T-Dogs eyes. He'd seen the scars before (which Merle didn't know), but it was easy to forget that his loud, overconfident brother had been through the same shit he had. Now he'd gone and let out the secret to a complete stranger.

He distracted himself by pouring a small amount of water over Merle's head and shoulders, and couldn't help a smile. Just like before, Merle started cursing.

"Fucking _hell_, Daryl? Why am I naked?!"

With a smirk, Daryl shoved the bottle in his face and said, "Drink." It was an order.

Merle eyed his little brother warily, and did as he was told. He was feeling a little betrayed and a lot exposed.

No one needed to say it... everyone in that room was extremely uncomfortable.

All three of them jumped at the knock at the door. "I got it," said T-Dog as he stood and unlocked it, letting Glenn in.

The Asian stopped and stared at the sight waiting for him. "Whoa... It got _weird_ in here." He got over it quickly and grinned as he strained to lift up a full 5-gallon jug from a water cooler. "Look what I found." He proudly hauled it into the room and set it next to the brothers.

Merle frowned at it and up at Glenn. "You try and dump _that_ on me and I'll wring your little chow mien noodle neck."

"Wow... you really work hard at that," Glenn shot back. "And it's more like ramyun, seeing as I'm Korean."

_"Whatever." _Merle wasn't going to admit he didn't know what the hell ramyun was.

Sure enough, as soon as the cap was off the jug, a generous portion of it was poured over Merle by Daryl and T-Dog. Glenn stayed out of it. He picked up that Merle was being extra hostile to him for some reason and he didn't want to piss off the violent redneck any further.

Merle was wetter, but he wasn't any colder. Still, he wrapped his arms around himself and shivered. He was trying to hold it together and hide it down like he always did, but he kept slipping.

What the hell was he _doing_ here? What was going on? It was like someone had hit the reset button, and now here he was with a T-Dog who wasn't dead, a Rick who wasn't out of his gourd, a Glenn who didn't hate him, and a Daryl who wasn't ashamed to be his brother.

...And he had his hand. He clutched at it, stared at it, his mind travelling far away to his other life where he was supposed to be. He kept waiting for the other shoe to drop; to wake up and discover he was hallucinating as he bled out on the floor of that shack. Or... was all _that_ a delusion brought on by heatstroke?

He snapped out of it and found his brother's concerned eyes boring into his own. "Merle? You with me?"

"Yeah..." He looked up, and there was Rick standing there holding a first aid kit.

"We need to take care of your wrist," said the cop.

But damn did this feel real, the nausea, the burn of the water on his reddened skin, the sting of antiseptic. His eyes grew wet with unshed tears as his brother dressed his wrist.

He didn't know what he was supposed to do or believe... but he prayed to God this was real.


	3. Catch 22

"Look, I'll come back with y'all tomorrow if I have to, but we need to get Merle out of here _now."_

Merle cracked his eyes open at the sound of his brother's voice, and he groaned as a throbbing headache settled in behind his eyes.

"I'm sorry man, but I'm not walking the streets of Atlanta with nothing but my good intentions."

That was T-Dog.

Merle shifted a little so he could see what was going on. His brother and the Three Stooges were sitting and standing around a bunch of lines and trash they had set up on the floor.

"That's exactly my point," said Rick. "How do you expect to get your brother to the trucks without those guns?"

"Same way we got here," countered Daryl.

But Merle was suddenly a lot more interested. He propped himself up on his left elbow and said, "Guns? What guns?"

The others gave him a look of surprise. Apparently they weren't expecting him to join the conversation.

Seizing the opportunity to sway Daryl, Rick said, "I dropped a bag of guns in the street yesterday and we want to get them back, but Daryl here thinks we should get you out of the city first."

Merle scrunched his face up at his brother. "Screw that. I ain't hauling my ass out there without weapons. You thinking like a pussy again, Daryleena?"

Daryl frowned at the use of his least favourite nickname, but kept his cool and said, "The delirious man dying of heat stroke ain't getting a vote."

"That still makes it 3 to 1," Glenn shrugged. "So here's what we do..."

With the argument settled, Merle quickly lost interest interest. He was still exhausted and his head still hurt like the day after a bender (which he kept forgetting it was), so he laid back down and shut his eyes.

Then next time he woke up, he was alone with T-Dog and he felt like his skull was going to split open and pour forth something graphic; probably spiders. His vest and pants were back on though. That made him feel a little better.

"Where's Daryl?" he rasped.

The black man had been staring out the window and his head whipped around at the sound of Merle's voice. He bit his lip, shifted uncomfortably, and said, "I don't know if you remember the conversation about the guns or not..."

"I remember," Merle cut in.

T-Dog nodded. "Daryl didn't really want to leave you here, but with that crossbow of his, he was the best choice to back up Glenn."

_"Glenn?" _Merle's brow rose at that. What exactly was that sneaky bugger doing?

"He volunteered to go out there alone." T-Dog transferred some water from the jug into one of the empty bottles. "Daryl and Rick are spotting him from the alley."

So Daryl wasn't running through the streets with his ridiculous crossbow? Merle swallowed and said, "That kid's got some balls, for a Chinaman."

"He's Korean," said T-Dog in a frosty voice. He handed the bottle to Merle and went back to staring out the window.

Clearly he was done talking.

It was strange...

In the past, the black man's attitude would have set Merle's teeth on edge and he would be laying into the guy. If there's one thing he hated, it was being ignored or dismissed. It pissed him off to no end, and when Merle Dixon is pissed, so is everyone else; his loud, awful mouth made sure of it.

Only Merle _wasn't_ pissed. Hell, he wasn't even a little miffed. He used to be furious at this man to the point that finding out he was dead was a huge disappointment. He had _so_ wanted to be the one to put T-Dog down.

And now he couldn't call up any of his old hatred and rage. It was all gone; an emptiness taking its place.

Death puts a unique perspective on things.

Merle stared at T-Dog, who fidgeted and pointedly refused to acknowledge him. He didn't hate the man anymore, so what was he supposed to feel now?

Guilt?

A hazy memory flitted through his mind of name calling, and shouting, and fighting; and then Merle had a gun his hand as he stared into the terrified eyes of that man now calmly standing there. He'd nearly done it. The thrill of cocaine and power almost had him pulling the trigger on someone who's only crime was not taking his bullshit. He shuddered, finding himself disturbed by the memory. It would have been the first time he ever killed someone, and it would have been so fucking _pointless_.

He stared at a spot of the floor.

The thought of apologizing left a sour taste in his mouth. T-Dog dropped the keys and left him cuffed to the roof to die... but no... wait... Merle wasn't dead. Was he? They came back for him, didn't they?

_Didn't they?!_

Before he could put his thoughts and memories in order, a ruckus kicked up in the hall. Some high, annoying voice was hollering in Spanish.

"That the hell?" T-Dog rushed to the door and opened it to usher Rick and Daryl inside.

The two of them were hauling a wriggling Hispanic kid between them who looked like he was about to piss his pants.

When Daryl shoved the kid to the floor, Merle staggered to his feet and moved to one of the office chairs. He didn't know what this was, but he didn't like the spark of ice in Rick's eyes. He didn't want to be in the middle of _anything_ if Officer Friendly was involved. Last time, he ended up dead.

The cop got in the kid's face and said, "Where did your friends take Glenn?"

"Wait... something happened to Glenn?" T-Dog's voice rose as he spoke.

The kid glared at them defiantly and he kept his lips tightly shut, so Daryl gave him a good kick and said, "This little shit's friends tried to steal the guns and nabbed Glenn instead!"

Merle leaned forward and put his head in his hands. Sweet Jesus Daryl could be a loud son of a bitch when he was worked up.

This drew Daryl's attention, and the younger brother bit his thumbnail as he paced the room like a caged wolf. They didn't have time for this... but Glenn didn't have to come and help save Merle either. Without the Korean's help, they wouldn't have made it in time.

As much as he wanted to get his brother back to camp where there was medicine, and shade, and cold water, he couldn't bring himself to ditch someone who had stuck their neck out (however reluctantly) for his kin.

He and Rick plopped the kid in a chair and set to the interrogation, but as willing as Daryl was to get brutal, the cop wouldn't stand for it. All they had were threats, and the cocky little punk kept calling their bluffs.

Merle raised his head to stare at the proceedings.

There was something niggling at his aching mind. Something about Hispanic gangsters in Atlanta...

And then he had it.

Shumpert... the quiet archer from Woodbury's ranks.

Merle was taken back (or forward?) to a quiet, subdued night around a campfire. He had been laid up for weeks, his arm was finally starting to heal, and he had asked what kind of man the Governor was.

Woodbury didn't have walls yet. In those days they were a small, frightened encampment, and were still months away from anything resembling the safety and "normalcy" they would achieve.

The men surrounding him fell silent and looked at each other, uncertain of how to answer.

It was Shumpert who spoke up with a story about what went down just after they found Merle wandering half dead outside Atlanta. The men had gone into the city and came across a gang of Hispanics holed up at an old folks home. The Governor took two of his men to "talk." The rest waited in hidden vantage points in case things went south.

The Governor shot first.

When all the gangsters were dead, he and his men discovered the old folks they were protecting. He had them killed as well.

Merle had tried to hide his unnerve, but Shumpert saw it. He said that it was a tough decision, but the elderly would have died anyway, and the medicine they gathered had since been used to save many of their people's lives; including Merle's.

Snapping back to the present... past... whatever the hell it was, Merle squinted owlishly at the kid. Assuming this was real and none of that had happened yet, what was he supposed to do?

If he kept it to himself, this soap opera would continue for who knows how long and he would keep getting sicker. Not to mention, if it culminated in a shootout, Daryl could get hurt.

If he brought it up and he was right, he'd look like some sort of freak show.

Finally, there was always the possibility that none of this was real and he had turned into a nutcase without realizing it.

Damned if he did. Damned if he didn't.

_"Fuck it..."_ he muttered. He cut into Rick and Daryl's questioning and said, "With all them tattoos and that attitude, you'd think this bitch was in a gang. Didn't realize they were letting little kids in."

"Who the fuck are _you_ supposed to be, the Red Lobster?" the Hispanic spat back.

Daryl put himself between the little shit and his brother. "Merle, you keep your fucking mouth outa this."

_"Merle?"_ sneered the captive. "What kind of hick name is that? I wouldn't name my _dog_ Merle."

Merle should have been furious, but as with T-Dog earlier, the rage wouldn't rise. Instead he smirked. Without his temper, he could admit that was a pretty good burn, made all the funnier by Daryl's spluttering reaction and attempts at murder.

In seconds, the Hispanic was backed into a corner while Rick and T-Dog restrained one fucking pissed off Redneck.

As hilarious as it all was, Merle's head was still killing him and the whole world was pitching like it had decided to hop on a roller coaster through the stars.

He pressed the heels of his hands into his eyes, struggled to keep down all the water he drank, and barked, "ENOUGH! For _fuck_ sake people, the bitch and his buddies are hiding old folks. _That's_ why they want the guns. Now would y'all shut the fuck up?!"

You could hear a pin drop in that hot little office.

They all stared at Merle, startled by his sudden, crazy outburst.

Until their Hispanic "guest" shakily said the last thing any of them were expecting, "How the _fuck_ do you know that?"

"Wait... What?" said Rick. He turned on the kid, but was ignored.

The Hispanic was staring between Merle, who still had his head in his hands, and Daryl. Deciding the younger hick was more likely to answer, he repeated, "How the fuck does he know that?!"

Daryl didn't answer. His face was neutral and his eyes were sharp as his hunting knife as he backed away towards his brother. He didn't know what the hell this was, but he did know it was seriously weird.

Rick stepped up to the shaking young man, put on his best 'helpful cop' voice, and said, "He's _right?_ You're protecting old folks?"

Gone was the cocky gangster. It was a wide eyed, frightened teenager who looked back at Rick and tried to muster up the last of his bravado. He stuck his chin out and said, "No way, man. I got no idea what he's talking about."

"Bullshit!" Rick hissed, causing the kid to flinch. "Why the hell would you even try to hide it?"

"We ain't gonna be easy pickings. Just 'case you got a bunch of guns? We got guns too, man, and numbers. You ain't hurting any of our folks."

"Dude." T-Dog shook his head. "Do we _look_ like we wanna hurt a bunch of old people?"

Biting his lip, the kid nodded towards Daryl and said, _"You_ don't, but that _culero_ shot my cousin in the ass with a fucking _arrow!"_

Daryl was going to retort, but Rick waved him off. The cop sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose. "I'm starting to think we got off on the wrong foot." He extended his hand. "Rick Grimes. I'm willing to part with some guns, but I want my friend off the bargaining table."

The kid bounced with uncertainty as he stared at the offer of peace. He drew in a breath and closed his eyes. _"Shiiiit."_ Finally he opened them, took Rick's hand in a strong grip, and said, "Miguel. I think... we gotta talk to Guillermo."


End file.
